


swing me your bones

by cave_canem



Series: magic in your veins [4]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M, Oral Sex, no sex in an actual graveyard tho, sex and graveyards as promised, talk of necromancy, tonight we branch out!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 13:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16476524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_canem/pseuds/cave_canem
Summary: “What did you offer him,” he asks, “to get him to come?”Kevin turns his head toward Neil so hard he probably gets whiplash.“Nothing,” he says. “He just told me we were going. I thought you’d asked him.”“I came because I wanted to,” Neil says. It’s easier than to explain that he didn’t want to leave Andrew alone and Kevin with his demons.





	swing me your bones

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE WANTED TO USE THIS TITLE FOR TWO YEARS WOOHOO 
> 
> This is the only reason you're getting anything even remotely Halloween-themed from me. Anyway.

The little fire fox dances on the wall. Neil barely directs it, making him zip around the room lazily.

Fire is dangerous. He’s been told this his entire life by his mother. Mary bridled his magic; she did it to keep him safe, and Neil is honestly aware of this fact. He’s grateful, in a way, because he only acquired the painful burn scars after her death, when he let his cover slip. Even in death she was right.

Fire cannot hurt him anymore. Not because he’s been hurt too much already—pain is infinite, and there is no such thing as a maximum threshold of it, that Neil knows—but because fire can be snuffed out with one easy step.

It’s not dependence. It would be, if Neil hadn’t also learned control. He’s not quite there with Kevin’s deep focus and efficient way of honing his magic, but he’s worlds more assured than he was when he arrived at the Foxhole. Neil’s strength is wilder and less precise. He thinks of it as borrowing energy rather than harnessing it, but Kevin’s been harnessed his whole life: unlearning this natural hierarchy is a difficult task.

Andrew walks into the room, and the fox is snuffed out mid-jump. Neil feels its loss down to his fingertips, tingling with leftover energy.

“A fox,” Andrew says, unimpressed. “Don’t you have enough of those downstairs?”

The shop downstairs has been turned into a zoo, according to him. He would be right, if half of the animals on display were real. They’re actually statuettes and figurine charms, hanging from the ceiling and crowding the shelves.

Foxes aren’t usually the animals that are the most associated with Halloween, but it’s the emblem of the shop and they still have a reputation of being wild and mysterious. They’re everywhere downstairs, turning the shop even more violently orange than it is the rest of the year. Wymack also stocked on cats and other traditional ornaments, but he refused to bring in ravens, so they had to make up for them with bats, conjured to fly above their heads with jerky movements and sudden swoops.

Matt, who’s had to fight off three bats stuck in his hair in the past week, claims it’s the worst commercial decision Wymack’s ever made.

“Dan claims I need more holiday spirit,” Neil says, dropping on his back on the bed.

“Halloween is for children,” Andrew says, flicking his fingers dismissively.

It’s not entirely true. Halloween is a bastardized version of a witch’s holiday that has lost all meaning. It’s rumored you can bring people back from the dead on this night, and communicate with ghosts. The veil between the worlds being thinner than usual, or something equally ridiculous.

“Do you think someone will try it?” Neil asks as Andrew comes sit on the bed next to him.

Andrew is careless in dropping his weight. The dip in the mattress sends Neil rolling toward him. He doesn’t fight the momentum, letting his leg rest against Andrew’s back. Andrew allows it with a press of his hand on Neil’s calf.

That unshakable buzzing follows every one of his touches up Neil’s leg. Neil half wants to draw it back toward him to protect himself against the onslaught of sensation. The other half yearns to reach for Andrew and let him consummate Neil whole.

“They’d be stupid to,” he says. “So probably.”

“Your faith in human nature is heartwarming.”

“I’m not an overoptimistic idiot,” Andrew answers. His fingers drift down the leg of Neil’s pants, resting above the strip of skin of his ankle for a second.

“Yes,” Neil says, and shivers from head to toe when Andrew presses his fingers against the bone. “That’s the first time someone’s accused me of being optimistic,” he adds when the bubbles against his tongue have subsided, like swallowing a mouthful of champagne.

“You’re confident,” Andrew corrects, “to the point of arrogance.”

Neil meets his eyes, humming a non-answer. His first instinct is to deny the accusation—hadn’t he spent the past twenty years of his life fearing for his life?—but he knows they both remember his words to Riko: _You’re going to eat those words. You’ll choke on them_.

Riko hadn’t choked. He died nonetheless. Neil would think himself the winner, if the competition hadn’t been about his own life. Still, as Andrew carefully lies down on the bed next to Neil, his hand hovering over the patch of ruined skin on Neil’s cheek he likes to mindlessly caress, he thinks he might have ended up on the right step of the podium.

* * *

It’s cold in the cemetery, and not as deserted as Neil would have thought. He hasn’t celebrated Halloween in—forever, literally. He didn’t expect so many drunk witches tumbling along the tombstones.

None of them are in a very necromantic mood. There’s giggling and screeching when someone’s foot gets caught and they sprawl down. A group of witches make their way down the path where Kevin, Andrew and Neil are standing, conjuring colorful bubbles that burst on the low branches of the trees lining the way.

They pass by the three Foxes without even noticing them.

“Who’s brought lead?” one of them cries when their magic cuts off. He gestures in the air with pointless emphasis.

Andrew looks at them icily. He makes no move to step forward, but Neil can see he’s annoyed.

“There’s lead in the tombstones,” one of the other witches says. She hiccups, pointing straight ahead. “So that they’re not re—reincarc—reincarnated.”

“That fucking sucks,” a third one says, and their party keep going on unsteady legs.

Kevin looks at them with a sneer of disgust. Neil isn’t sure if it’s because of the sheer idiocy of the statement or their inebriated state. He’s swore of alcohol four months ago and has been keeping his resolution with the stubborn dedication he puts in everything.

When they’re alone, they step out of the shade and make their way to an adjacent path. Even in the dark and without light, Kevin can guide Neil and Andrew easily. It makes Neil wonder how many times he’s made that same trip, from the gates of the cemetery to the line of private vaults.

The Moriyamas’ younger branch’s vault is dark and gloomy, standing tall above the others. It’s adorned with statues of ravens taking flight, the white stone darkened with age. A spell enchants them to fly around with rustling wings; they stop silent as soon as Andrew approaches.

No noisy and irregular gravel for the Moriyamas: they step on soft grass as they approach the vault. In the dim moonlight, everything looks gloomier and tackier than it does in broad daylight.

“Cremate me when I’m dead,” Neil says, looking at the twisted forms of the ravens, caught in awkward positions. There is something exhilarating in knowing that Andrew’s mere bored presence can stop such a powerful spell. It makes Neil burn hot with righteous anger for all the people who’ve underestimated Andrew and relegated him to the sidelines because they found him inconvenient.

“I will not keep the urn,” Andrew warns.

“Are you planning on staying all this time, then?”

“Do you believe you’ll last this long?”

Kevin elbows Andrew.

“You can spread the ashes around the Foxhole or something,” he says.

“That’s morbid, Kevin.”

“Are you saying you haven’t considered it?”

It’s the truth. Neil doesn’t dignify the question with an answer.

Andrew turns around, probably disgusted by Neil and Kevin’s single-mindedness, and sits in the shade of a large chestnut tree across the pathway from the vault. All the leaves are gone, leaving the branches bare and grotesquely gnarled, black against the dark backdrop of the sky.

Andrew looks up at Neil in the chiaroscuro of the branches painting deep shadows on his pale skin. Neil meets his eyes for a second, glances away.

“Should we sit?” he asks Kevin.

Kevin doesn’t answer. He buries his hands in his pockets, slouching slightly against the cold draft. Neil sighs, drawing his jacket closer to his body.

“We’re just going to wait all night,” he asks. It’s not really a question.

“You can go,” Kevin mutters.

“Not without Andrew.”

“The whole point of this is to get Andrew here,” Kevin says.

Neil hums. They look at Andrew’s sitting form, covered from head to toes in black. His blonde hair and pale skin are barely visible. If it weren’t for his unmistakable effect on their magic, Neil is sure most witches would miss him.

“What did you offer him,” he asks, “to get him to come?”

Kevin turns his head toward Neil so hard he probably gets whiplash.

“Nothing,” he says. “He just told me we were going. I thought you’d asked him.”

“I came because I wanted to,” Neil says. It’s easier than to explain that he didn’t want to leave Andrew alone and Kevin with his demons.

Their eyes meet, and they look at Andrew with twin gazes. Andrew stares back, steady and unreadable. Neil has to hide a smile in the thick woolen scarf Dan knitted him last Christmas.

“I guess preventing Riko to come back it counts as protection,” he says.

They wait around the rest of the night. At some point, Kevin agrees to move and sit next to Andrew in the shade. They do well, because a large party of witches dressed like zombies amble past just after that, totting off course. One of them ends up throwing up right where Neil and Kevin stood moments before.

“Disgusting,” Kevin says under his breath.

The witches hold their sick friend up, but they leave his mess behind. It might be because of Andrew, although they don’t seem to try hard at all. Furiously muttering imprecations, Kevin has Andrew step away until he can open a deep hole in the ground to bury the sick in.

They go back to their cold watch.

It’s barely midnight when Andrew reaches for the bag Neil packed. They huddle under the large blanket, munching on snacks Nicky sneaked in without Neil’s noticing.

“Is this chocolate or raisins?” Kevin asks, squinting. He holds the cookie in front of his face, as though he can see anything in the dim light of the moon.

Andrew reaches over Neil to snatch it, bites into it, and gives it back to Kevin.

“Raisins,” he says, immediately reaching for one the chocolate truffles.

Neil licks chocolate powder from his fingers, sitting back against the hard bark of the tree. A root is digging in his lower back, and it’s so cold he can’t feel his ass anymore.

“Tell me we won’t have to do this next year,” he says. Kevin sighs next to him, his breath ruffling Neil’s hair.

“It shouldn’t be possible,” he says.

“But?”

“But.” Kevin pauses for a long time, looking for his words. “We never know.”

Necromancy is such a complicated branch of magic that most people aren’t aware it’s real. The laws of it are such that the chances of anyone successfully resurrecting Riko, even on such a night as this one, should be null. Riko died in May. Necromancy is imprecise and dangerous: immediacy, as far as Neil knows, is key.

Kevin has been an anxious wreck for far too long for Neil to ignore his untold plea. Considering Riko’s end and the lack of rumble his sudden disappearance has caused, Neil would bet no one will be coming for him. Tetsuji will not risk Ichirou’s ire for his nephew’s corpse. The only people who care about visiting that particular corner of the cemetery are sitting huddled under the big chestnut tree. A sad excuse for a wake in memory of a man whose death fills Neil with a sense of satisfaction.

On Neil’s other side, Andrew shuffles closer. Neil leans back against him, trying to give him the warmth he never seems to get enough of. Most witches’ blood runs hotter than Andrew’s, who is also endowed with bad blood circulation. Neil can only feel the shivers running down Andrew’s body because they’re pressed so close together. He knots his fingers in Andrew’s sleeve, trying to absorb them with his own body heat.

It doesn’t work like that. Neil knows that. All the same, Andrew grows stiller against his side. His arm brushes against Neil until their hands are a whisper away from touching.

They wait.

Around two, Andrew heaves himself off the ground, one gloved hand on Neil’s shoulder for support.

“You can’t leave,” Kevin says as Andrew stretched his legs. “What if someone comes?”

“Hold them off until I’m done pissing,” Andrew replies. He walks off, not bothering to wait for Kevin’s answer.

No one approaches in the five minutes it takes for Andrew to come back. He sits against Neil again, jostling him out of his uncomfortable position, burrowing under the blanket.

Neil must fall asleep, because next thing he knows, he’s falling sideways.

“What,” he mutters.

Andrew pushes Neil’s head away from its position on his shoulder. There’s messy a mark on his cheek, which makes Neil think Andrew might have fallen asleep against him too. On Neil’s right, Kevin is curled up on his side.

Neil blinks, looking around. No one is around; even the concert of traffic from the street has faded away. He doesn’t need to check the time to know their wake is nearing its end. The sky is paler than it’s been in hours, and the faint brush of fog covers the ground at ankle’s height.

They’re supposed to wait until sunrise. Neil isn’t sure they’ll manage to convince Kevin otherwise, but at least they can spend the last couple of hours standing. His limbs are numbed from the cold and humidity; it takes him three tries to struggle to his feet, and then he has to stomp around to get the feeling back in his legs.

Kevin wakes up grumbling when Neil drags the blanket off him.

“I hate you,” he says blearily as Andrew and Neil bully him into standing up.

“You’ll hate me more,” Neil tells him as he looks over his shoulder, “when I tell you there was a bench over there.”

He’s right: Kevin grows surlier. He shoots Andrew a murderous look and stalks over to the bench, collapsing on it just to spring back up with a yelp. The old wood is wet with morning dew.

“When can we leave?” he asks as they gather around for a pitiful breakfast.

The chocolate truffles made Neil thirsty, but they finished the thermos of coffee last night. Andrew finishes off the box of brownies and glances at his watch.

“Forty minutes.”

It’s later than Neil thought. It worries him for one fleeting moment. A shallow realization that he was wrong rather than a life-endangering mistake.

At least they’re facing east. The pack up the bag as they watch the sun rise over the top of the trees, behind the last of the bulky vaults. Andrew turns around as soon as the first rays of sun peak through the leafless branches, coloring his hair bronze.

Neil fastens his bag, shrugs it on and jogs after him. He doesn’t look back, though he knows Kevin isn’t following yet.

They’re almost back to the normal part of the cemetery, making their way along the first rows of graves, when they hear steps on the gravel behind them. Neil doesn’t turn back; Kevin falls in step next to them easily.

“Breakfast?” he asks.

Neil’s answer gets lost in his yawn. “Bed,” he counters.

Kevin shrugs: _Fair enough_.

* * *

The Foxes aren’t up yet when they enter through the back door. The sound of their steps on the old wooden stairs is the only indication of human presence in the building until they pass Wymack’s door, where they can hear the faint sound of voices from the television, as usual.

Kevin parts with them on the doorstep of the apartment he shares with Andrew, muttering, “Good night,” before the door closes on him. Neil expects Andrew to follow him, but Andrew doesn’t move. He closes Neil’s door behind them and shrugs off his coat in the hallway.

“What?” he asks as he looks up into Neil’s searching gaze.

“Nothing.” Neil turns away, dropping the bag on an armchair with his jacket.

When did Andrew start to feel so at ease in Neil’s space? It’s maybe more important to know when Neil started to accept Andrew’s deafeningly loud presence in his space. Or perhaps the answers to both questions matter less than the way the rooms appear less empty when Andrew steps inside the quiet apartment. Like Neil, Andrew is small, but he never goes unnoticed. It warms Neil up more efficiently than the burning radiator at his back.

“Staring,” Andrew notes, and he steps close enough that Neil has to close his eyes not to go cross-eyed.

His lips are cold, still covered in a thin layer of chocolate powder. Neil licks it up, reaching for the night-cold material of Andrew’s thick sweater. He feels almost light-headed from the lack of sleep and the sudden warmth of his apartment on his chilled skin. Opening his mouth under Andrew’s slightly chapped mouth, Neil deepens the kiss. His hands fist the material around Andrew’s waist, holding but not pulling; it’s Andrew who decides to come closer, who nudges Neil’s legs until he takes a step back, pushing him toward the wall of the living room.

Something at ankle’s height trips Neil from behind. He extends a hand, letting go of Andrew’s sweater, and hisses in pain.

“What,” Andrew says, breaking the kiss.

He takes a step backward as well, untangling himself from Neil. Neil lets him go with regret, missing the feeling of the soft cotton against his collarbone immediately.

“Burned myself,” he says, shaking off the pain in his hand. “Radiator.”

“Idiot,” Andrew growls, and he drags Neil forward.

Neil lets himself be manhandled into the plushy armchair. The thrill of having Andrew’s hands on his body, strong and gentle in the way they never force, has him almost breathless as he stares up into Andrew’s face.

Andrew takes hold of Neil’s hurt hand. “It doesn’t hurt,” Neil hears himself say. His eyes never leave Andrew’s. “Just a burn.”

“You’ve had enough of those,” Andrew says, glancing at the already fading red mark on Neil’s ruined skin. He lets go of the hand with more force than necessary and turns away, striding toward the door.

“Where’re you going?” Neil calls after him. It surprises him that he does. Five months ago, he might have accepted the dismissal without knowing to question it.

It surprises Andrew too, because he stops on the threshold of the living room.

“You said you wanted to go to bed,” he says. “Or have you forgotten who had to hold your head up all night?”

He looks over his shoulder. The motion is easy, incredibly graceful in a way Neil associates with Andrew more and more these days. Neil finds himself wanting, all at once.

“I said bed,” he says, letting his gaze tell what his clumsy words can’t convey, “not sleep. Yes or no?”

Andrew covers the space between them in three quick steps. He leans on the armrests, bending over Neil, his face too close to claim indifference.

Neil tips his head up. It feels weird, to have Andrew be the one leaning down. The difference this time is more than the three inches that usually separate them. Andrew must like that, Neil thinks nonsensically as he watches Andrew watch him.

Neil doesn’t realize his lips were slightly parted until Andrew’s tongue is already in his mouth. Neither of them complains, and Neil feels emboldened enough with Andrew’s admission of his wants and his acting on them that he clutches at Andrew’s collar, using whatever leverage he can to pull him closer.

They break apart long enough to catch their breaths, panting against each other’s cheeks. A shiver rakes up Andrew’s frame when Neil lets go of his sweater, tracing the dips in his neck with one finger.

“Yes,” he growls in Neil’s ear. “And you?”

Neil draws back. “I was the one who asked _you_ ,” he says.

Andrew accepts this however he wants. He stands back up, hands traveling up to find Neil’s until he’s dragging Neil out of the armchair and down the hallway.

They actually fall onto the bed.

Neil’s body has had time to burn off the adrenaline and punch of Andrew’s first touch by now. Every brush of Andrew’s skin—his fingers, his lips, the tip of his nose against Neil’s jaw—on his own kindles a different kind of fire in Neil’s blood. He’s walking through a kind of haze, part exhaustion and part Andrew-induced desire.

They both underestimate the smallness of the room. Andrew trips over a sweater left on the floor that Neil flattened upon entering the room, and pulls Neil closer to regain his balance.

“Messy,” Andrew mutters as they both look down. He flings the clothing away with his foot.

“I wasn’t expecting visitors,” Neil says.

Andrew’s gaze is thoroughly unimpressed. “I was there yesterday.”

“And we didn’t have time to do anything before meeting Kevin,” Neil says, tugging at the short hair at Andrew’s nape. “Whereas now—”

“Don’t bring Kevin into this.” He surges forward to kiss Neil again. It’s messy, all clinking teeth and bitten lips. Neil smiles in the kiss, which makes Andrew tug more insistently at his belt loops. A push, a pull, the disorienting sensation of falling, and Neil sprawls on the bed, cut off at the knees in his momentum.

He lets out a breathy laugh, sitting back up on his elbows. Andrew is standing above him, one knee on the bed digging in the blankets next to Neil’s own leg. His eyes are dark and his hand halfway from his body—from pushing Neil or reaching for him, Neil doesn’t know.

“Well?” he asks, dropping on his back again. “Now you’ve got me on the bed.”

Andrew snaps back in motion.

“Stop flirting,” he says, settling above Neil’s legs and nudging them closer together with his knees. It seems rather counter-productive to Neil’s admittedly limited experience, but he allows it because Andrew sits back on his heels, almost in Neil’s lap. “You’re bad at it.”

“Whose fault is that?”

His question remains unanswered, forgotten to the silence of the room in favor of the intense look in Andrew’s eyes.

This, Neil knows. He lifts his face up so that he can catch Andrew’s lip between his, tugging with a scrape of his teeth until Andrew pushes him back down again and follows him there, pressing close to him but never constricting.

It’s easy to press his hands against the thick material of Andrew’s sweater, traveling up and down over the soft pouch of his stomach over the hidden muscles Neil knows are there. It’s easier even to get consent to slide his fingers underneath the fabric, following the instinctive dip of Andrew’s stomach. Neil swallows the shaky breath Andrew lets in and steadies his full-body shiver with a hand over his neck, thumb brushing at his pulse wildly beating.

Because Andrew expresses his feelings by repressing them under the soothing balm of control, Neil is divested of his sweater first, then his pants. He has to toe his shoes out of the way while Andrew tugs at his belt so they don’t get caught on when Andrew throws the jeans away. They gently flop down on the floor.

“Adding to the mess,” Neil says, lifting his head up like he’ll check over Andrew’s shoulder. He pretends he can’t feel the way Andrew’s fingers are hovering above his thigh, a “yes” burning on the tip of his tongue and Andrew’s hot mouth on his jaw.

He grabs a fistful of Andrew’s hair when Andrew bites gently at the skin he finds there, and the illusion is dispelled.

“Off?” he asks, speaking the question in the crease of Andrew’s neck as retaliation. He tugs at Andrew’s sweater until Andrew withdraws, long and far enough to strip of this layer and not more. He‘s still wearing a long-sleeved shirt and his armbands under it, but when Neil hooks a hand in the hem, he catches Neil’s wrist.

“No.”

“Where?”

Neil lets Andrew guide his hand back under the shirt, to the skin of his side. Neil’s fingers dance on him, sliding to his back when Andrew allows it, moving up until Andrew’s shirt is rucked up, almost as good as gone.

This time when Andrew shivers, Neil feels it too. Andrew is pressing close to him but he’s almost naked, and the apartment is cold with lack of use during the night. Neil curls his fingers, drawing his legs up until they’re pushing against Andrew’s back.

Andrew sits up, glancing behind him as though he’s just noticed the position they were in. His hand is resting flat in the middle of Neil’s chest, going up and down with Neil’s unsteady breath. When he shifts, his fingers slide across Neil’s skin, brushing his nipples until Neil sucks in a breath, hissing from the influx of sensations. He bites his lip as he watches Andrew refocus, the deliberate motion of his fingers that leave goosebumps in their wake. Andrew’s mouth replaces his fingers, sucking and lapping lightly until Neil is sure he can’t stay quiet anymore.

“Wait,” he says when Andrew lets go of his right nipple, starting on the opposite one. Neil squirms, trying to clear his head from the overpowering sensation of wetness cooling on his heated skin and the brush of Andrew’s thigh against his own crotch.

Andrew looks up intently at Neil, but he doesn’t move his hand, shallowly closed around Neil’s ribcage. The tip of his fingers rest against his skin; Neil can see them, but hardly feel them through the large scar running down from his left shoulder. The scratch is extensive; the scarring tissue, thick enough that the feeling of Andrew’s mouth is disconnected from Neil’s vision of it, like through wet fabric.

“Neil.”

Neil opens his eyes. He didn’t realize he’d closed them. Andrew is watching him, looking as though he’s going to withdraw. Neil catches his shoulders, holding him in place.

“Stay,” he says. “Just—not the left side.”

Andrew’s answer, like often, is non-verbal. He blinks, looking straight down at Neil’s eyes, and slowly rolls their hips together. The zipper of his fly catches against Neil’s underwear. He hisses, not quite in pain.

“Andrew,” he manages, fingers digging in Andrew’s broad shoulder. Good thing he keeps his nails so short, he thinks briefly, before another roll robs him of his intellectual abilities.

The rhythm Andrew’s created stutters when Neil humps back, winding his legs around Andrew’s. He listens with satisfaction barely tinged with smugness at Andrew’s irregular breathing. For a while nothing exists outside the two of them rocking into each other on Neil’s too hard mattress, in the mess of blankets Neil hasn’t slept in.

As always, Neil is growing more outwardly expressive quicker than Andrew. He’s not loud by any means—at least, his very limited experience makes him think he isn’t—but deciphering the physical clues that betray Andrew’s being affected is a skill Neil has had to develop specifically. Andrew is puffing hot breaths against Neil’s shoulder and Neil leaving wet trails of open-mouthed kisses up and down Andrew’s neck when the weight of a hand on his crotch breaks the rhythm.

Andrew lifts his hips clear off the bed to take off his underwear and Neil fights off a surge of arousal that would considerably shorten the moment. When he thumps back on the mattress, Andrew doesn’t lose a moment, scooting down until he can hook Neil’s legs up over his shoulder. He doesn’t waste time. There’s almost no warning before Andrew swallows him almost whole, his thumb brushing regularly at the juncture of Neil’s hip and thigh.

He presses once, briefly, on the thumping pulse point. Neil feels it to his toes, electric like magic coursing through his veins, a sort of irony he doesn’t have time to appreciate.

Andrew hates it when Neil moves while he’s sucking him off, so Neil does his best to stay still on the bed, anchoring his hips to the bed. Andrew’s touch is gentle on his hips but Neil imagines that it’s harder, pushing back into the covers to keep him where Andrew likes him.

The hot sheath of Andrew’s mouth on his sensitive skin makes it hard for Neil to think of anything else. His mind circles back to pleasure in a way he’s learned not to discard; he focuses on the soft press of Andrew’s tongue when he smoothly glides upward, the way it circles around the head before he pushes back down. Neil’s eyes flit closed, one of his hand flying to Andrew’s hair, carding through the soft strands without applying pressure. His thighs shiver with the effort of not closing tight around Andrew. Pressure builds in his stomach, both familiar and unpredictable.

The tiniest scratch of teeth against his oversensitive skin almost makes him jump off the bed.

“Do that again,” he gasps before he can sort out his thoughts properly.

Andrew is staring at him through his pale lashes. He pulls out, without tongue and more carelessly than before.

“Hair,” he grits out when his mouth is free.

His voice is hoarse despite his low tone. Neil blinks once, then disentangles his fingers from Andrew’s hair. He’s been tugging; he hadn’t realized.

“Sorry,” he says, though he knows Andrew doesn’t care about hearing it. He brings his hand up, intending to find any other handhold that isn’t Andrew. He considers the blankets or his own hair, but the motion feels awkward in advance, now that Andrew is hovering above his erection, lips red and shiny.

Andrew catches his wrist halfway through. Even that simple contact has Neil shivering from head to toes, sparkles shooting up his arm like he’s pinched a nerve. They stare at each other for a moment, suspended between touch and empty brushes of air on a cooling skin, before Andrew shifts back down. He doesn’t guide Neil’s hand to his hair again but he keeps his hold on it, electrifying.

He lets his teeth brush slightly against the vein under the head of Neil’s shaft, once, before taking up his former rhythm. Neil barely has enough breath to gasp his name. In three glides and a brush of Andrew’s fingers against the inner skin of his thigh, he’s undone.

He lets his legs fall down from Andrew’s shoulders afterward. He feels spent and empty like being in contact with Andrew’s banishing presence has never made him. Andrew nuzzles his leg briefly, the tip of his nose ghosting over the same vein that had busied his fingers earlier.

Something else blooms in Neil’s chest.

He hooks his foot under Andrew’s still clothed ass, pushing until Andrew takes the hint and crawls back up Neil’s languid body. He’s undone his fly at some point; the button of his jeans digs into Neil’s stomach, cold and thrilling with the show of trust.

Andrew presses his forehead to Neil, stealing messy kisses that taste a little musty. Neil isn’t a fan of it, but Andrew doesn’t seem to mind, if his propensity to take Neil into his mouth is anything to go by. He still has yet to let Neil touch him in the same way, through or inside his pants, but Neil wonders if Andrew would taste the same, were he ever to allow Neil to reciprocate.

Neil’s attention is diverted by the muscles of Andrew’s arms, working as he balances himself over Neil with one elbow. The dark material of Andrew’s long-sleeved tee-shirt clings to him like a second skin; it highlights the definition of his arms and the broadness of his shoulders. Neil puts his hand on them without really noticing, tracing the creases and bulges of the muscles with reverent fingers.

Insistent nosing at his temple shifts his focus back. Andrew’s lips are instantly on Neil’s, only a little rough; he deepens the kiss, tongue brushing against Neil, as he lets go of Neil’s wrist. Neil doesn’t need to ask why; he doesn’t draw back in surprise or look down as he might have done a few months before. This part is familiar. Andrew’s distractions are never efficient enough to take Neil’s mind completely off what he’s doing. As soon as Andrew’s pushed away his jeans, Neil reaches for him again.

This time it’s Neil’s hand around Andrew’s wrist. His hold is loose at first, easy to shake off, but Andrew allows it without even breaking the kiss. It’s permission to tighten his grip, to follow Andrew’s hand as it slides inside his underwear.

Neil swallows Andrew’s panting breaths. He brings his leg up to rest against Andrew’s ass and follows his harsh movements as he takes himself in his hand. The duality of the sensations almost drowns him, and he breathes with Andrew through his orgasm.

Finally, Andrew’s hand stills, though not for long. He doesn’t linger as he slips it out of his pants, dislodging Neil’s grip at the same time. He wipes his hand on the sheet, only breaking the kiss when Neil does.

“Hey,” he says. “I sleep in there.”

“Unfortunate,” Andrew says, and distracts him further.

It’s only later that they move out of their position. Andrew rolls into the pillows, easing his weight off his arms, and Neil extends his cramping legs as he lies parallel to him. They’re less close than before but their position is more intimate anyway; they fit together like parentheses.

The sun is high in the sky by the time Neil closes his eyes mid-kiss, mouth going slack against Andrew’s soft lips, and doesn’t open them when Andrew draws back.

“Neil,” he hears.

Neil hums an answer. When he feels Andrew’s warmth withdrawing totally, he opens his eyes, missing the contact on his bare and chilled skin.

“I’m here,” he says to repel the idea that he might ever not _want_ Andrew.

It doesn’t work; Andrew gets up, going to the window to close the blinds. In the semi-darkness, Neil can barely make him out, stepping out of his jeans and crawling back in bed over Neil’s prone form.

He takes his place by the wall as usual, tugging the blankets over them until Neil’s covered too. Neil shivers before the blankets start to warm him and rolls over, facing toward Andrew. Andrew’s eyes are open. Neil can see them too clearly in the midday light. Usually it would be too bright for them to fall asleep, but sleep tugs at Neil’s hands like magic after a long inactivity. His limbs rest heavy on the mattress, one hand halfway through the bed; an offering, to be accepted or declined as Andrew sees fit.

The blankets rustle as Andrew moves. His hand comes up as well, mimicking Neil’s. They don’t touch. They don’t need to. The meaning is there, the understanding clear between them.

Neil closes his eyes. He’s asleep before his lips stop tingling from Andrew’s kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me @[jsteneil](http://jsteneil.tumblr.com/post/179627155261/magic-in-your-veins-part-iv-swing-me-your-bones) on tumblr. I don't bite and I take prompts. Sometimes.


End file.
